The British Way of Dealing
by Tithenmamiwen
Summary: "Of course I wouldn't have told you, America.  See, the British are different from you Americans.  We do not air our dirty laundry for others to hear.  It's simply the British way of dealing." Pairings: America/Harry, France/England
1. Chapter 1

Summary: "Of course I wouldn't have told you, America. See, the British are different from you Americans. We do not air our dirty laundry for others to hear. It's simply the British way of dealing."

Pairing(s): America/Harry, France/England

Warning(s): AU!Harry Potter universe, slight AU!Hetalia universe

Author's Note: Special recognition goes to Kimanda and her awesome input- of which I shall keep in mind for future chapters as well. Seriously readers- go bow down before her awesomeness.

Disclaimer: I own nada. ._.

**The British Way of Dealing**

"_Ah, mon ami, I only cut your hair in a way that would be- how you say?- hip and cool for you! Honhonhon!"_

_England glowered as France flounced away, proud of his newest way to get England's attention. Before completely leaving the clearing, though, France quickly looked over his shoulder and shouted, "But, if I were you, I'd trim the eyebrows, too!"_

_That was the straw that broke the camel's back, with a cry of outrage; England launched himself in France's direction, intent on pounding his face in._

_However, France was quick to dodge, and disappeared._

_A rustling of bushes turned his attention away from his anger, and England frowned. Was it an animal? He waited until he could hear the rustling again before heading in the direction of the noise, intent on finding out._

_Peeking into a bush, he frowned at seeing a small baby, swaddled in blankets, asleep on the ground. Curiously, he watched for a few minutes before noticing a few glowing lights land on the baby's cheeks._

_This would be his first time seeing fairies as well as his own brother._

_Making his decision, he quickly gathered the babe in his arms. "Harrison…I'll name you Harrison."_

_~x~_

_England smiled gently as America begged him to stay and not leave him. After all, whenever he had to leave, it would sometimes be weeks before seeing him again._

_Feeling a twinge in his chest, he quickly hid the grimace, and leaned down to ruffle America's hair._

"_Little man," England said affectionately, "I'll be back soon, but take care to grow strong, okay? Remember all that I taught you."_

_Somehow it seemed as if this would be the last time he would see America this affectionate._

_But Harrison's health came first…he always came first._

_~x~_

_It was raining. A fitting weather for all the pain he was experiencing._

_He heard America say that he used to be so big, and asked what happened, but he couldn't answer. Not with the pain he was experiencing from both Harry as well as the pain of a colony tearing itself away._

"_Go…just go…"_

_Feeling the pain blossom in his chest, he knelt on the floor as America turned his back on his ex-caretaker and left with his army. It would be the last time England would ever let someone other than Harrison near his heart._

_Only Harrison, with his own pain, would stay by England's side._

_~x~_

_Standing in the doorway of the room, England shifted on his feet hesitantly before asking quietly, "Does it still hurt, brother?"_

_In the bed, Harrison looked over to his big brother, and bit his lip._

"_Brother? Can you sing to me? You know, that melody you used to sing in the Tudor era?"_

_It was an avoidance of the question, and England knew it._

_Still, coming in to sit on the edge of the bed, England gently ran his hand through his brother's locks, and started to sing softly. _

"_-and who I thought to find-"_

_Breaking off, he smiled gently as he noticed his brother's eyes closed in sleep._

"_Please get better soon, Harry."_

_~x~_

_England frowned as Harry let out another loud cry of pain. While he could feel painful twinges himself, it was nothing compared to Harry experiencing it first hand._

_After all, Harry had the painful experience of feeling both World War II and Grindelwald terrorize the United Kingdom._

_He felt helpless listening to Harry's screams, and he hated being unable to take the pain away._

_England felt even more miserable with the fact that he'd have to leave Harry alone with only a housekeeper for months, perhaps even years, due to the war._

_Leaving some last minute instructions to the newly appointed caretaker, he turned to his brother's form, arching and straining from the pain._

_Gently running his hands through his brother's hair, he tried to memorize the feel of those soft locks, unwilling to forget a single thing about his brother._

"_I'll come back for you, just you wait."_

_~x~_

_The war was over, and Grindelwald in prison, and Harry, for the first time in quite a long while, was able to slowly walk from his bed to the large-stuffed chair in his room. Only with England around to help him, though._

_Sometimes England felt as though it wasn't fair for his brother. His brother was the human embodiment of magic, so he should be able to enjoy using his own powers and his own magical world. But because of humans- people with magical powers but humans all the same- tearing his civilization apart by war and greed, he was unable to experience all the wonders of the world like his older brother._

"_Arthur…I feel on edge. Like something's going to happen soon."_

_Arthur frowned before feeling Harry's forehead, "You feel a little hot, are you sure it isn't just residue of your health problems?"_

_Harry shook his head, dislodging the hand, "No, the war- both wars- are over. I shouldn't feel like this, but I do. I think another war will start soon."_

_And all England could do was look at his brother helplessly._

_The first wizarding world and World War II nearly killed his brother, what if this possible war finished the job?_

_~x~_

England sighed as the G8 meeting finally ended for the day. As usual, nothing really got done, and it didn't help that Voldemort was able to revive himself.

Now that he was on a killing spree- trying to hunt down that Neville boy no doubt- Harry felt multiple deaths bearing down on him each night.

Perhaps, if Harry hadn't had to deal with war and health problems most of his life, he could easily take Voldemort's magic away, but he was weak, and his magic lacked the power that it once had.

Harry always was a rather weak person, smaller than England due to his various health problems.

So, when the meeting finally ended- and really, the only reason he even came was because it was being held in London- England immediately left for his home, intent on checking his brother's health.

The fact that he hadn't even argued- or, really, opened his mouth to criticize- immediately told all the other nations that something was wrong.

But none of them commented, and for that England was grateful.

However, when the meeting resumed the next day, and England never showed up, the nations knew something was up.

Immediately volunteering himself because he was a hero, America gave a grin and left, whistling a jaunty tune on the way to England's place.

As America walked up the driveway to England's door, he frowned as he thought he heard a scream, even though it was muffled from the outside.

He hesitated, wondering if he should bother ringing the doorbell, but instead touched the doorknob. To his surprise, it opened immediately, and it also worried him.

Arthur would never leave the door unlocked like that; after all any random stranger could enter.

But, when he could hear another moan, clearer this time due to the open door, Alfred decided to ignore his ex-brother's privacy, and entered the house only to see Arthur immediately in front of him with an angry look on his face.

"What the buggering fuck are you doing here?"

Rather affronted by that particular phrase being used towards him, though he was used to England insulting other people, he frowned down at him.

"You didn't come to the G8 meeting today."

England groaned before trying to push America out, "No I didn't, and, if you'll excuse me, goodbye!"

Another moan interrupted the struggle, and America looked down at England, worried. "Is…there another person here, England?"

Grumbling, knowing America would never leave without answers now, he tugged America inside before shutting the door.

"Into the kitchen while I make tea, Git."

America followed without a fuss, knowing that any antics he usually did would immediately send him outside again.

In a nervous habit, he pulled out a hamburger but England swiftly stretched an arm out to grab the hamburger, and dumped it in the trashcan. "Don't you dare eat those calorically disgusting things in this house."

America laughed in a nervous manner before clearing his voice, "What's…going on England? Who's that person in your house?"

England sighed, not really wanting to admit it, but kept to his promise. "He's my younger brother, Alfred."

Several moments passed in silence, America too stunned and dumbfounded to react. But, after noticing that his cup of 'dirty water' was spilling down his shirt, he blinked.

"W-What? Peter's here? I coulda sw-"

England cut him off abruptly, glaring all the while. "Not THAT brother, America." England sighed, feeling off-kilter at the fact that he's have to tell someone else about his young brother.

"I found him back before you were ever found. Indeed when I was small, myself."

America frowned, a hurt look on his face. "Why did you never tell me I had an older brother?" Taking Texas off for a moment, he cleaned the lenses with the hem of his shirt before putting them back on again.

England, placing his cup on the table- anything, really, to keep from looking at the nation he somewhat rose from childhood to adult years- frowned, trying to find words. "Even if I had told you, you wouldn't have been able to meet him."

"Why not? I may have been young at that time period, but I could have still travelled with you….unless….was it because of him you always left me? Regardless, that doesn't excuse the fact that you never told me."

England sighed at the direction the questioning went. "Of course I wouldn't have told you, America. See, the British are different from you Americans. We do not air our dirty laundry for others to hear. It's simply the British way of dealing."

Looking weary, from the centuries of caring and protecting for another, England continued. "The only reason why I'm telling you this now is because, as loathed as I am to admit it, I need help. My Harrison…needs someone...to have a friend other than myself. I feel the years crushing down on my shoulders, and worry for Harry if ever something happens to me. He barely made it through the second World War."

America worried his bottom lip, thinking through everything he's learned before slowly speaking. "So…what you're saying is that your brother needs a…hero?"

It was a phrase, profound in America's mind. For, though he boasted of being a hero himself, no one ever truly said to him that he was a hero. It was…refreshing…


	2. Contemplation

Summary: "Of course I wouldn't have told you, America. See, the British are different from you Americans. We do not air our dirty laundry for others to hear. It's simply the British way of dealing."

Pairing(s): America/Harry, France/England

Warning(s): AU!Harry Potter universe, slight AU!Hetalia universe

Author's Note: Harry Potter is the representation of England's magical civilization. So, for the purposes of this story, all wizarding wars are concentrated in England, which they, pretty much, are to begin with. Also, this is going by the Hetalia anime seasons, of which there are only the first two seasons, and I want more. T^T

Disclaimer: I own nada. ._.

**Contemplation**

It was quiet.

Unusually quiet in the hotel room America had rented for the week. Normally he would be out messing with the locals or to, perhaps, drag England off for McDonalds. However, that was only on a normal day.

After the meeting with England, in which said ex-caretaker turned his world up-side-down, all America really wanted was to be alone to think over the newly acquired information.

And so, here he was, lying on a mass-produced hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling.

England had a brother.

England had a brother that nobody knew about for _hundreds_ of years.

Just trying to wrap his head around this thought was hard for him- heck, it would be hard for anyone!- and he wondered how Iggy had accomplished this feat.

As far as he knew, this boy was neither a nation nor a micro-nation. England said it himself, that it wasn't Peter in pain.

If anything, surely he and the other nations would've felt the presence of another if this guy was a personification of _that_ nature.

They had a connection like that.

Every nation could feel a slight connection to one another. Likewise, every nation had a connection to their citizens. It's what let the nation know when there was a natural disaster or a spreading disease. At the same time, the connection between nations is what lets each of them know if anything has happened to another nation.

For example, Germany could feel the change in connection when Prussia ceased to exist as a nation and became part of Germany.

Oh, the connection was still there between the two- after all Prussia hadn't died, he just had to hang around at Germany's house now- but it wasn't as strong.

Granted, America wasn't really sure if the same could be said for Ancient Rome and those guys. After all, he wasn't around at that time.

But, coming back to the point, he- Alfred- would have felt England's brother if said brother was a nation. Heck, if the guy was a nation, he would've spent his childhood used to feeling the connection.

Therein was the crux of the matter.

How could this Harrison possibly be alive still if he wasn't a nation? He obviously wasn't an alien- Toby mentioned that his people did not really get interested in Earth until the space race had started- but he couldn't possibly be a normal human either.

It was a lot to take in.

And America would freely admit that he was curious. Perhaps, had he gotten the chance to actually meet this other person, some of that curiosity might have been sated but England was tired- mentally and emotionally- even if he didn't show it, and so felt it best if America left…though not before threatening him, and blackmailing him, should mention of his brother ever pass his lips when in the presence of other nations.

America never could quite read the atmosphere- he still didn't know what that meant because his people, obviously, got to the moon and back- but he at least had some semblance of tact to know when to be serious. And this was one of those Serious Moments.

And so, here he was, hours later, lying on a bed in an economy hotel, thinking and getting his thoughts in order.

_~x~_

Harry was pained.

His children, though they did not know this, were fighting each other again. Families fought against other families just for the simple reason that one side uses light magic and the other uses dark.

Oh, when would they ever realize that magic did not have a side?

That magic had shades of gray in it that was much more fulfilling than any white or black could ever hope to fulfill.

And it all boiled down to the mechanics of Voldemort and his own beliefs. Voldemort, the man who held the belief that people of a certain blood lineage should not possess the gift of magic.

The creation of terms was used to categorize these people.

Mudblood…

Half-breed…

Squib…

There were more that was used in reference to the ones in high standing, but they did not matter for these terms were the ones that hurt the most. They were the derogatory words.

His children were prejudiced, though he wished otherwise, and refused to acknowledge that even the poorest of persons had a right to use their own magic.

Harry hoped against all hope that, with the fall of Grindelwald, his teachings would perish.

And they did.

For twenty-five years, Harry was able to enjoy blissful peace.

There were still some stirrings in his body, especially in the very early days of peace, but they were nothing compared to the hell that was during the World War II years. Unfortunately, even he knew that war would start once more.

His magic could never quite settle down during those years, hissing the air in agitation, making the atmosphere in the house thick and charged.

He would admit, embarrassed and apologetic, that his magic would sometimes be so thick that his own brother would get a sharp shock each time he entered his bedroom.

God love his brother, England.

England, who was always so kind and patient with him, took care of him during his darkest hours.

It wasn't just by taking care of him, though. England was, and still is of course, understanding.

England only ever spoke in quiet understanding even when the pain was so much that he would sometimes yell at his brother.

His caretaker…

Cursing England for attempting to keep him healthy and alive instead of letting him perish; though, inwardly, Harry knew that he wouldn't be able to die easily at all.

But when delirious in pain, there was no place for common sense.

And through it all, England never raised his voice back. England never once thought about abandoning him even though any other lesser being wouldn't even think twice about it.

There was a reason why England was always referenced as Mother England and the Mother Country by the humans.

He could appreciate England's gestures during his moments of peace, though he found them overbearing during Grindelwald's reign of terror.

England would put his foot down if he wanted to be out in the garden- not that he'd have had a chance to enjoy it mind you- but would instead open a window for some fresh air.

Nor would England let him cast a spell that took too much effort.

One time, he had tried a simple levitation spell on an object when his brother was away, only for the thing to shoot up through the roof, creating a mid-sized hole.

His magic had gone haywire when casting the spell, causing the spell to become overcharged.

They had yet to find the keepsake box.

Harry did not know how England repaired the hole- nor how he explained the hole to the repairman in the first place- for England moved him to another room for the duration of the repairs.

Afterwards, Harry apologized profusely, but England just stroked his hair and said that he was only figuring out his boundaries. England did tease him by saying that next time he could pay for the repairs, though.

That was a few years after the wars were officially over.

And now, here he was again, feeling the overall draining effects of a second war when he had yet to recover from the results of the first one.

He hated this.

Hated the fact that he was so weak, and how Voldemort got the idea that it should be him to decide who was gifted with the ability.

If he could, he would make Voldemort's powers null and void, would make Voldemort's magic turn on him, tearing his own body a part arm-by-arm and leg-by-leg.

But, with the way his strength was right now, the most he could do was even the odds a little.

He got a feeling during Voldemort's first reign, and gently 'encouraged' the Trelawney to 'See' the Prophecy, all the while praying that Voldemort fell for the trap.

It was his will that Neville should survive that Halloween night, as well.

It was because he gave the phoenix a mental nudge, that he helped Neville against the Basilisk.

It was all he could do to help Neville when he couldn't deal with Voldemort himself. All the while desperately hoping that, should they ever meet, Neville would forgive him for forcing him to lose his innocence at such an early age, and for forcing him to become an adult in a child's body.

But he had to take that chance.

Had to take the chance for the betterment of both worlds, where there would finally be peace.

For he knew that, should Voldemort win, the whole world would be at stake. Already, he knew that some of England's people were beginning to notice that something was going on.

His brother tried to hide it, but he could tell that his war was starting to affect England, as well.

And, if it affected England, who's to say that it wouldn't, eventually, affect other nations? France would be one of the first to experience the affects, due to how close he was compared to Russia or China.

So he would take that chance to save England, to save the nations.

And if, by the end of the war, in order for Voldemort to die, magic- and, consequently, he- had to cease to exist…

Then so be it.


	3. The Dead Have no Answers

Summary: "Of course I wouldn't have told you, America. See, the British are different from you Americans. We do not air our dirty laundry for others to hear. It's simply the British way of dealing."

Pairing(s): America/Harry, France/England

Warning(s): AU!Harry Potter universe, slight AU!Hetalia universe

Author's Note: So yes, this is a bit shorter than what I would've liked, but it seemed like a good stopping point. Keep in mind please that I will admit to being a relatively slow updater. It's not that I don't write nor am I holding the chapters for reviews, but I juggle two jobs as well as having a social life. That said, be prepared for a scene change in this chapter, and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nada. ._.

**The Dead Have no Answers**

It was night, and a cold front had rolled in, causing the window to fog up with each breath.

Most, except for one or two, of his fellow housemates had already gone to bed, wanting to be well rested for another day of classes.

He had all his assignments done already, but he couldn't yet bring himself to leave his position on the window seat.

Gazing down at the Forbidden Forest, he kept a silent vigil in respect for the dead.

He heard the portrait door open and close, but did not turn to see who it was. He felt more than heard footsteps approaching him before an airy voice spoke up, "He would not want you to close yourself off like this."

He felt himself stiffen before tearing his gaze away to look at the concerned blonde, "What would you know about what he would've wanted, Luna?" He spat the words out, uncaring of how he might've hurt her feelings with them.

"But Neville," Luna, the now named blonde began, "he could have easily died at any of the other tasks. He knew that, and took it into consideration, before signing up for the tournament."

Neville gave a bitter smile, "Yeah, but there's a stark difference between that and getting killed by a revived Voldemort simply because he was the spare."

Luna bit her lip, knowing she was getting close to dangerous territory, "Neville Longbottom. Cedric's death wasn't your fault, just as Voldemort's revival wasn't your fault. So you stop feeling responsible right now, or I'll drag you to Madame Pomphrey myself. The way you can honor Cedric Diggory is by focusing on your studies and let us, your friends, know that you are still alive. "

By the end of her speech, her breathing was ragged and she had a livid look in her eyes. Startled by her sudden fierceness, Neville reared back his head before shaking his head, looking abashed.

"I guess I have been neglectful towards my friends, and I'm sorry, but I can't just _forget_ about what had happened."

Calming down now that her words seemed to have had at least _some_ affect on Neville, Luna smiled gently before hugging him. "Nobody is asking you to forget, Neville. We only ask for a chance to help you."

Neville hugged her back, before teasing her gently. "Well, I'm heading to bed now. Conversing with you can be pretty intense sometimes."

Luna smiled and let go of her classmate, watching him as he headed up towards the boy's dorm room. Her words may have had an affect on him tonight, but whether he takes them to heart in the following week, well…she would just have to wait and see.

_~x~_

Neville shuffled into the dorm he shared with the other guys in his class year. Pausing to look at the bronze and blue of Ravenclaw, he had to admit that sometimes he wondered how he got to be sorted into this particular house.

Not that he minded at all, of course. He could remember back on the train ride, heading to Hogwarts for the first time. While the majority of the student, pre-student, and teacher population assumed he'd be sorted into Gryffindor, he himself had honestly thought he would be sorted into Hufflepuff.

Aside from being labeled as the Boy-Who-Lived, he never showed the Gryffindor courage that his parents had. Looking back on it now, he would easily admit that it was silly being scared of being stereotyped for the rest of his student life at Hogwarts.

But he had never been coddled before during his childhood.

As a child, getting his first scrape, he could remember crying, hoping his grandmother would kiss it better the way he had seen some of the children get their wounds kissed by their mothers.

His grandmother merely shook her head before scolding him, "Dry those tears, child. That's no way a Gryffindor would act. If you continue crying over a tiny scratch like that, you'll be sorted into Hufflepuff."

That was his grandmother, a no-nonsense old woman who would sooner go to a Turkish bath with a troll rather than token her own grandson with a simple word of praise or encouragement.

"The day you make something of yourself, boy, will be the day you get praised. These young parents nowadays coddle their children too much, and look at what happens? A spoilt child who thinks things should be given to them on a golden serving tray. No child of mine will behave that way. If you want something, you shall have to work for it."

Though he wasn't sorted into the Gryffindor house, he knew that she was at least mollified that he got into the house of knowledge.

And he was grateful for his placement in Hogwarts.

Whereas before, he couldn't get a good read on his fellow classmates, now he understood that Ravenclaw was, really, the best place for him.

Slytherin would have eaten him alive. No question about that, though he found Draco to be a good acquaintance as a study partner. Boy-Who-Lived, he may be, but he still grew up in a pureblooded family line, and so, as expected, he was made to attend play-dates as a child with several other pureblooded families.

Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, his first playmates as children, were tolerable, but- he will admit- it probably helped that he wasn't in the house of the lions.

Gryffindor…well…perhaps, if he wasn't the boy-who-lived, he could imagine himself as a Gryffindor. But he was, and quickly found that the ones who were clingy to him on the train the most were also the ones who were sorted into Gryffindor. That Dean Thomas wasn't so bad, but Ronald Weasley had a…bit of a brother complex….that, and he wouldn't stop staring at his scar.

He was almost sure that, had he gotten into the same house as Ron, he'd wake up to find the other boy in his bed or something. Also, Ron had a bit of a temper. So, no, he was glad he wasn't a Gryffindor, after all.

And as for Hufflepuff…well, he was a bit of a bumbler throughout his childhood, and he did NOT want his teenager years to be known as the Bumbler-Who-Lived-in-Hufflepuff.

Surprisingly, throughout the turbulent events of the Triwizarding Tournament, Ravenclaw house became a safe haven for him.

His fellow Ravens stood up for him, going to Dumbledore when his name was first called to state how he couldn't have possibly put his own name in- he was with a fellow student most of the time and, if not, then was sleeping in the dorms- as he couldn't have been in two places at once. Stating loopholes of how he couldn't have possibly brewed an aging potion that would work since they had yet to learn them in Potions, and how could he brew a potion that he hadn't tried in Potions before when his skills were mediocre at best?

When the Ravenclaws failed to convince the head proctor and the judges of the tournament to let Neville off the hook, they banded together, going over possible spells and strategies for whatever obstacle he might be up against.

Even Draco and Blaise helped him somewhat, though the rest of the Slytherins were neutral.

All-in-all, what could have been a bad year of antagonizing and hazing for Neville, turned out to be somewhat tolerable for him until the last event.

_With a house like Ravenclaw, what other house could I have possibly wanted to be sorted in?_ Neville mused as he changed into his pajamas and tucked himself into bed.

Friends like Luna and Hermione and Terry, who were understanding and patient with him during the summer. They understood his need to avoid the subject and, instead, wrote letters of vacation trips and homework and clippings of new plants they needed care suggestions on.

_Luna's right_, Neville thought as he turned his bedside lamp off, _I will try and put the past behind me. Dealing with Voldemort is what's important for now._

And, with that in mind, Neville drifted off to sleep.


End file.
